


epilogue, part two: naomi campbell

by scriptmanip



Series: Resting on Your Laurels [10]
Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/scriptmanip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You lay facing each other when it’s all said and done, clothing haphazardly removed and lips reddened, until your breathing shallows and your pulse returns to normal. And Emily presses her lips together, in the way she always has, smiling as you brush the hair from her face. </p><p>“You’re so lovely,” you tell her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	epilogue, part two: naomi campbell

_as told by Naomi Campbell_

The day it happens is pretty, fucking ordinary.

You won’t remember much about it in the end, aside from the twenty or so minutes spent in a back garden with someone who will have changed your life without any warning. It happens just that way – an entire day filled with absolutely nothing memorable, and a handful of minutes that will span the rest of your life.

You like Emily alright. What little she’s said to you has been less obnoxiously shallow than the things other girls tend to say, at the very least. But finding out she’ll be at the party is _not_ why you decide to go. Definitely not.

As with most wretched things you’re forced to endure, this is entirely the fault of your mum. You’re off on a Saturday night to what will obviously be a shit party for the sake of silencing her and all her badgering for you to take your nose out of a book _‘once in a fucking while.’_

You can’t be sure why she’s so intent on getting you to hang out with your wanker peers instead of enlightening your mind with literary classics. Except that when it comes to parenting, she rarely gets _anything_ right. What you do know is that she won’t bloody leave it alone, and if she’s hell-bent on you cultivating a social life with slags like Leah Forman, then now is your chance to get it over with and prove her wrong.

You’ll go to the fucking party. And you’ll stand around like a tosser with the rest of them. And you’ll drink the shit beverages that make all the girls act like brainless twats. And you’ll try and, inevitably, _fail_ to have any sort of meaningful conversations. And then, on Monday, you’ll go back to being a basic social outcast who couldn't give a shit about having actual friends.

The party, from the start, is shit.

And you instantly feel justified for having predicted this outcome, almost anticipating the smug grin you’ll wear when relaying it to your mum later on. What she can’t quite seem to grasp is that you see things differently than other kids your age. There isn’t much that gets past you, honestly. Unlike the boys who are baffled by geometric theorems. And the girls who seek life advice from the glossy pages of trashy magazines. The lot of them: a waste of your fucking time.  

So it only takes around an hour, probably less, for you to wade through the sea of them, embarrassingly clichéd in their attempts at having a good time, eventually finding your way to the garden at the back of the Forman’s house, which is hardly occupied and calmer by several thousand decibels.

You’re on your third or fourth drink, and by definition, are fairly drunk. You immediately think, by typical standards, this should mean you’re having a grand time as well. Even though the lingering, rational side of your brain tells you that you’re not.

Because Katie Fitch’s abrasive laughter is still just as grating as it always is if not _more_ so, you think, reaching into your bag for a crumpled pack of fags.

You’re still scowling about the sound of it, her brash cackling, muffled only slightly by your being outdoors, when someone snaps a lighter in front of your unlit cigarette. Your heart nearly, fucking stops then because in this light, and at a quick glance, they look almost identical.

“Think I could get one?”

Emily doesn’t smoke. You’re sure of it. You would have noticed, probably.

But you fish one out for her anyway, and hand it over wordlessly. To which she replies, with a cheekier smile than you’ve _ever_ seen on her, “Thanks.”

And then just plops down next to you on a bench along the garden’s perimeter.

Someone’s strung up fairy lights – fucking sloppily, if you’re being honest – on the tree above your heads, and it’s giving Emily’s red hair a kind of glow, so that it looks shiny, almost molten.

“Pretty fucking terrible in there, isn’t it?” she says.

It suddenly feels odd, sharing a similar opinion on anything with Emily, and so you shrug and look away when telling her, “I suppose.”

She’s also sat too closely. Something you don’t realise until Emily crosses her legs so that her thigh skims just barely against your own in the process, ruffling the hem on your dress. You’re not sure which is worse, the pin pricks you’ve registered in the pit of your stomach from her skin lightly touching yours, or that you’ve noticed the length of her skirt and can’t stop looking at her bare knees. Her skin would be soft to the touch, you think. And then blink a few times to clear your head because the Archers is obviously having more of an effect on you than you’d originally thought.

Emily’s one of those people, apparently, that likes to speak after a drag, like she’s holding a joint instead of one of your shitty Mayfairs, so that smoke wafts across her lips on each word when she says, “Not as cold as I thought it’d be.”

Your eyes have since moved from her knees to her lips, but you’re hardly concentrating on what Emily’s saying since your mind is lagged on the notion that Emily might also smoke spliff in addition to cigarettes, and you’ve no fucking idea how to process any of it.

“What?”

“Yeah – didn’t even think I’d be able to wear this outfit Katie made me buy for this stupid party, but it’s actually pretty warm for this time of year, isn’t it?”

Emily looks back at you then, and you blink, hoping against all odds that your mouth’s not been hanging open, but you fear it has because your throat is suddenly very dry.

“Right. Yeah, I guess.”

You’re pretty sure the tone you’ve conveyed is disinterest, at best, so you’ve no idea why Emily is laughing lightly and placing her hand on the bench between you so that her pinky finger is essentially touching your leg, if not for the thin material of your dress.

“You’re not very chatty, are you?”

“No,” you answer quickly, clearing your throat and taking another pull from the bottle sat beside you, having forgotten how horrible it tastes until you’ve got a mouthful and you’ve no choice but to swallow it down.

“Yeah, me neither.”

It’s your turn to laugh now, but it’s more of a scoffing sound. “Aren’t you?”

Emily watches you for a beat, seems to notice the way your brow is raised sceptically, and then shakes her head.

“No, ‘course not. Katie’s the talker, isn’t she?”

“Katie’s not chatty, she’s fucking incessant.”

Emily laughs again, even though you were being mostly serious, and then nods her head a few times while taking another drag. “She’s definitely got a lot of … opinions.”

“All well-formed and entirely her own, I’m sure,” you add, finding it easier to talk with Emily when belittling Katie.

But then Emily breathes out, and your shoulders tense for no reason. “She thinks she has everything figured out, but I suppose that’s not really possible.” She flicks the remains of her cigarette into the yard, and you watch as its embers flip end-over-end into the darkness. “I mean, we’re not meant to at this point, are we?”

You’ve not been speaking towards one another, not really. Up until this point, you’re just two people sat on a bench and speaking into a barely lit garden. And now you don’t _want_ to look at her because Emily’s voice has taken on a different tone, something you don’t recognise that unsettles you immediately. Except you do look over [because you can’t fucking help yourself] to see her watching you, expectantly, like she’s waiting for you to say the right thing.

But, honestly, you didn’t come to the party to have philosophical conversations with a girl you hardly know, even though a part of you is completely engaged in the prospect. Even though more than anything you’d love to hear what else Emily has to say about any number of things.

It doesn’t matter. Because you came here to prove a point. You came here to claim your reckless abandon, to get drunk, and to act irresponsibly for you mum’s sake, and nothing else.

So you find an arrogant smirk before taking the last drag of your cigarette. “Honestly, Emily, I wouldn’t have pegged you for one of those girls who gets introspective and horribly _boring_ after only a few drinks.”

Emily’s voice returns to something small and familiar when you hear her say, “Sorry.”

The word tugs stubbornly at something inside your chest, and you hate the way it feels almost as much as you hate yourself for being such a prick.

But then you nudge her arm with your elbow, and Emily’s face lightens almost instantly. “Can’t believe you troubled yourself with a new outfit just for Leah Forman.”

“What? I didn’t – I mean it wasn’t like – not for—“

Seeing Emily flustered and agitated immediately makes you smile. You’ve no idea why.

But then Emily shoots back with her own challenging smirk, “And what about you? Just had this thing lying around, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I did.” You straighten your posture, giving you more than a few inches over Emily, even when sitting, and reach into your bag for more fags.

She’s back to smiling, which is a relief. Even though the site of it, coupled with the way Emily’s eyes run up and down your frame, is entirely unnerving. She then pinches her lips together when your eyes meet, a poor attempt to kerb her smile that doesn’t fade even a little. And you really wish she’d stop doing things that so effortlessly draw your attention to her mouth.

You quickly decide then that Emily smiling in any capacity is better than the alternative, but what’s _not_ okay is the way your stomach drops out when she holds your eye and says in some soft, low tone, “Well, I like your dress. It reminds me of daises.”

**

The thing is, Emily was never meant to become anything significant.

It wasn’t quite a one-off. That much you knew straight away, even at age fourteen. But you’d maybe considered that it was just an experimental phase, some hormonal hiccup drawing you towards another girl that would right itself over time. Sometimes, you try to remember if it was ever that – if she were ever something you considered abandoning with any seriousness. But, it’s been a very long time. And you can hardly recall the things you felt at nineteen, let alone at the onset of puberty.

What you do know, is that Emily quickly became _more_ than significant. She became everything, almost instantly.

People often advise with real conviction:

_Don’t lose yourself in another person._

_Maintain your autonomy._

_Be the keeper of your own happiness._

It sounds like brilliant wisdom to adhere. Though, not for you. Because you didn’t go and lose yourself in just anyone. You became shackled, irreversibly, to Emily Fitch.

And so the truth of it has always been that you never stood a fucking chance.

Lewis, following in Emily’s footsteps, becomes so much more than significant. It takes a year or so for you to realise it, but the day it hits you is almost comical. Because for someone who’s always considered herself to be fairly clever, your lack of self-awareness never ceases to take you by surprise.

“How are things going with the boy then?” Effy asks you one Saturday, a few months after Lewis’ second birthday, when Emily has taken him back to Rose’s flat.

“They’re – yeah, they’re good.” You haven’t had a cigarette in over a year and yet, when the sulphur of Effy’s match and the smoke of her first exhale hits your nostrils, a craving waters at the back of your throat.

As if she can’t help herself from being obnoxiously perceptive, Effy tips her open pack towards you and raises an eyebrow. When you wave a hand, declining her offer, she merely shrugs and takes another drag.

“Care to expound?” she asks on the exhale.

“I guess I—“ you’re fighting a smile and finally shake your head, looking away across a busy street. “It’s not what I expected.”

“Motherhood?”

“ _What_? No – _no_ , I’m not. It honestly doesn’t work like that.”

Effy eyes you sceptically, your eyes still incredulous and your mouth still salivating for the taste of nicotine.

“Emily has never asked me, or expected that of me,” you assure her. And then, a bit more definitively, “Lewis has two mothers, but the role I fill is something else entirely. I don’t really know how else to explain it.” 

Effy nods a few times before pursing her lips in thought.

“What?” you ask, suddenly feeling like you’ve given the wrong answer.

Effy’s lips curl up when she says, “The idea of children used to terrify you, Naomi.”

“Still does,” you say through a laugh, leaning back into your chair. “But then, I don’t know – there’s so much about it that sort of makes up for all the scary shit.” You shrug when Effy’s gaze continues to linger. “It’s still not something I’d have chosen – the nappies and the feedings and just the constant anxiety over this small creature’s well-being – but then, I don’t know, there’s so much about being with Lewis that I’d not expected.”

“And of course you could never actually deny Emily of anything.”

Your hand nearly reaches out to snatch a fag from her open pack, but you roll your eyes instead while grinning, “That too.”

“Soppy twat.”

Effy’s laugh is low and quiet, but completely genuine, as you flip her off from across the table.

“So then, exactly what did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, reaching for your wine glass on the table between you. After taking a sip, you run a hand through your hair, which has grown too long and feels unruly in the afternoon breezes. “Just not this.”

“Which is what, Naomi?”

“Loving this kid so fiercely,” you finally say in a rush of breath. “Loving him like—“

“He’s yours?” Effy offers, her brow raising as she taps the end of her fag into the tray.

“No, it’s not quite that,” you say, the cogs still turning in your head even as you speak.

Because Lewis has never felt like he _belongs_ to you. But there is a definite familiarity to your loyalty, to your protective nature, to the way your heart breaks open for him with a single look.

And so you almost laugh when realising, “I actually think I love him like I love her.”

**

You’ve approached them so similarly, Lewis and Emily, and the end result is just as inevitable with her son as it had been with Emily.

From the very beginning, it had been your brilliant plan to accept Lewis merely as a by-product of Emily. Something that came with the territory and nothing more. You’d likely have accepted a heroin addiction so long as it meant being _with_ her.

You don’t mind him either, and after falling into your morning routine, rather by accident, you even start to enjoy him. But Lewis would remain a part of Emily, you’d thought. You and he could both take up space in her life, share it amicably even, but he would always be hers. And you were always okay with this arrangement.

What you’d not seen coming then, was the overlap.

It’s what you’re thinking about while sat in a park with Lewis. You don’t take the bench seats where all of the other parents are confined, huddled together like some sort of knitting circle, while their children climb around the playground. You’re instead sat on the grass under a beech tree off to the side, and every ten minutes or so, Lewis will run to the corner of the play area, come to a skidding stop on the wood-chipped floor, and wave.

At one point you’re too deep in thought, lost somewhere in your own head, and miss his signal, forcing Lewis to call out your name. Someday he’ll learn to say it correctly, but you almost hope it’s not until his first day of college, or longer still. If you’re lucky, he’ll never work it out. At his age, it’s still something completely endearing – the way the letters sound all mashed together, elongated only by his pronunciation of the letter _‘o’_ like saying the word _loam_.

You wave and smile, watching him do the same before scampering off again, and then wonder if Emily knows how so many of his mannerisms are exact copies of her own. You’ve not spent enough time with Rose to attribute his other quirks to her. And it isn’t fair, to discount that part of him – the _biological_ part, for chrissake. But still, you’d rather not. In your mind, anything that isn’t reminiscent of Emily, is simply Lewis.

When you’re leaving the park, Lewis takes your hand, unprompted. And you think: _Emily_.

A block or so from home, he looks up to you with utmost sincerity and asks, “Nomi, what do you fink would take longer – walking home from the park with your eyes closed or walking backwards?” And, with a fond smile, you think: _Lewis_.

Truth is, you’ve not made room in your battered chest – broken apart, still shattered in places, held together by flimsy plasters – for more than just Emily. There’s room for her, and for your mum, and not much else. For Effy, in her own way. And perhaps for Katie, if you’re feeling generous [or extremely intoxicated].

But then Lewis never asks for you to love him, for you to care for him, for you to worry over his well-being. For you to sit by his bed through the night when he’s sick with fevers or respiratory infections. He just wedges himself into every crack and crevice of your heart and takes up space. He removes all the plasters and stomps across your chest until you’ve no choice but to recognise that Lewis isn’t just some cohabitant in Emily’s life. And he isn’t just some by-product of the life you share with her. He’s an actual part of _you_.

**

“Nomi, what’s a Pop?”

Lewis is sat beside you on the sofa, a book spread on his lap while you work your way through your inbox. It’s a quiet afternoon, like most of yours with him, when Emily’s gone to teach and you’re left to work from home in Lewis’ company.

You furrow your brow and purse your lips while looking down – first at Lewis and then the book. “Oh, uh – suppose we’d better wait and ask your mum about that one, alright?”

“Why?” he asks, his face screwed up.

“She might want to explain some things to you is all,” you answer with a smile.

Lewis’ eyes go wide. “Is it a naughty word?”

“No,” you laugh. “It’s not anything like that. Why would there be naughty words in a children’s book anyway?” He shrugs, glances down to the colourful pages and traces shapes. “I just think we should wait, alright?”

“But, I want you to tell me,” he pouts. “It’s in the title, see? ‘Hop on Pop.’” He says each word clearly, pointing for your benefit with his tiny index finger. Once he’s looked back up with those gorgeous, almond-shaped eyes, you’re as good as gone. “ _Please?”_

And so you sigh, resigned yet again to this child and his effortless manipulations. “Fine, but if your mum asks, I’m telling her you tortured me mercilessly before I caved.”

Lewis giggles and shifts in his seat closer to you. “You say the weirdest fings, Nomi.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you glance off to the wall opposite. The one that’s scattered with a large arrangement of framed postcards. “Do I?”

Lewis nods. You can feel his tiny head bob against your bicep, and then his hand pulling your cardigan as he begs, “Nomi, tell me about the Pop!”

“Right.” You clear your throat when looking back at him, and then start in, not at all articulately. “Uh, well, let’s see. I guess if your mum had ended up with a man—“

“Which one?”

“Oh, um. Well, either of them really,” you correct, and Lewis nods again. “If _either_ of your mums had decided to marry a bloke, then he’d be called your dad. Or, according to the good Doctor,” you tap a forefinger to the hard cover of his book, “your _‘Pop.’_ Got it?”

Lewis quietly considers the book in his lap, biting his lip. A look so reminiscent of Emily, your lips curl up out of habit. He then says, still staring down at his lap, “So, I haven’t got a Pop?

You bite your own lip and then tentatively say, “No, you haven’t.”

He’s quiet for another few seconds, and then turns his head to look back up at you. “Will I ever have a Pop?”

You tilt your head just slightly, and tell him, “That’s not terribly likely. But,” and you hug him a bit closer while saying it, “you have got _two_ mums. And that’s pretty great, isn’t it?” Lewis nods, but looks back to his lap. So you tell him, “You know, I didn’t really have a Pop either.” His head snaps back up then, eyebrows raised. “And I’ve only got _one_ mum, who’s completely batshit at the best of times, actually.”

Lewis giggles and takes one of the bulky, wooden button of your cardigan between his fingers when saying, “Nan Gina.”

“That’s right,” you nod with a pleased smirk. “But, I turned out alright, didn’t I?”

Lewis, nodding emphatically now, smiles so that his eyes sort of crinkle at the edges. A moment later, though, his face is again carved in thought. “Nomi?”

You’ve looked back to your laptop, and begin scrolling through your inbox, answering distractedly, “Hmm?”

“What about you?”

“What about me, mate?”

He waits until you’ve stopped clicking around on the screen before asking, “I’ve got two mums _and_ you, right?”

Your right arm, still wrapped around his tiny frame, clenches out of instinct when you look down to see his expression, hopeful and yet equally uncertain. So you lean down to kiss his forehead just before assuring him, “Quite right, Lewis. You’ve got me too.”

**

The new arrangement takes some adjusting, and for the first few weeks, Emily is practically inconsolable. So you distract her with lavish dinners, long walks around familiar neighbourhoods, and plenty of sex. Admittedly, your efforts are fairly useless by week two since her depressive mood is apparently contagious. And it’s far easier moping around, sharing pints of ice cream, and mourning the loss of chatter, because the silence is suddenly _everywhere_ in Lewis’ absence.

“Is this going to get easier?” Emily asks sullenly, curled into your side on the sofa one evening.

“I can’t say for sure, but historically, you and I don’t fare terribly well when it comes to separation.”

She responds with pathetic, little whimpers, and you hug her more tightly to your side.

“How am I meant to see him for only two, fucking days every week? Did we make a horrible decision?”

Once you’ve swallowed back another mouthful of cherry chocolate swirl, you lean down to place a kiss on Emily’s pouting lips, which she hardly returns.

“It’s only a year. Plus, you’re omitting holidays _and_ the weeks between terms. He’ll spend his entire summer here, Em. And, in the meantime, we’ll just have to survive the lonely weeks together,” you tell her.

“That’s not exactly an answer, Naoms.”

“Look around at this place, Emily.” You gesture into the air with your ice cream spoon. “Is this not where Lewis was meant to be raised?”

She can’t help smiling at that, pinching her lips together as she looks around the room, sparse still from a lack of furniture or the bric-a-brac that once covered every surface, but it feels as much like home as it always has. And, off the look on her face, you think Emily likely agrees.

“I do love seeing him sat in the kitchen, eating his breakfast. Or hearing him run up and down the staircase. It still creaks in all the same places.”

You look down on her fondly, and bring your head to rest against hers. “There’s no way we made the wrong decision, Ems. This is our home, yeah?”

Her consent is delayed, a brief nod that you can feel as her head moves from beneath your own. And you wonder a moment later if it’d be alright to return to your ice cream.

**

By the fourth week, what once felt unnatural and insurmountable now seems almost routine. The house is still unbearably empty during the week when Lewis is in London attending school and staying with Rose, but you spend those lonely days hunting for hidden treasures to fill up all the empty space.

You take Emily to open markets and other, rather divey retailers to shop for antiques. You take trips to the hardware shops, stocking up on paints and wooden trim. Freshly planted flowers and shrubbery start to fill the unkempt gardens.

And slowly, the unfinished parts of the house start coming together. You’ve got some time before her new position at UWE begins, and Emily in home improvement mode, is as much an unstoppable force as the Emily of academia.

She’s in what you now call the spare bedroom, though it will always feel a bit like _yours_ no matter your age, when you find her. She’s dressed in tattered denim and an old tee shirt, possibly yours actually. Her trainers and hands are covered in paint splatters, and her shoulders are slumped in defeat.

“I’m so tired of staring at fucking paint swatches.”

Emily’s stood in front of a wall that’s been swiped several times with different colours of yellow paint. 

“Who cares what colour we paint this room, babe. We don’t have to live in it, you know.”

Her head swivels to find you standing behind her, an incredulous scowl already spread across her face.

“Of _course_ it matters. I don’t care that it’ll be a guest room, or a study, or just useless storage. It’s always going to feel like something more than that.”

Your chin falls to her shoulder once you’ve wrapped both arms around her waist from behind, and Emily tips her head against yours.

“Do you want me to phone my mum?”

Emily smiles and chuckles lightly. “It’s sweet of you, but there’s no fucking way Gina remembers what colour this room was painted some fifteen years ago.”

“Honestly, she’s more likely to remember the paint colour of my old bedroom before she remembers my own birthday.”

“Stop it,” Emily chides with a laugh and a light slap to your forearm.

“I’m serious!”

“No, you’re right,” she sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

When prompted, Emily spins in your arms until she’s facing you, her hair held back in a kerchief and her right cheek bearing a smear of blue paint.

Her eyes look saddened until you tell her, “It matters to me because it matters to you.”

She kisses you half a second later, and you think that perhaps, _finally_ , after all this time, you’ve learnt to say the right things when it comes to Emily.

By the time she’s beneath you on some old linen used as a drop cloth, her jeans and knickers around her ankles and your hand between her legs, you think you’ve definitely gotten something right. You then think about running back in time to find yourself at aged sixteen just so you can say to that girl you once were, _‘Don’t worry – someday you’re going to figure this all out. And it’ll be worth it. It’ll be fucking brilliant.’_

Emily paints the room buttercream yellow and dresses the bed in rose-coloured linens. On the day you walk past the open door to find her sat at the end of the bed, hands delicately folded in her lap, it actually _feels_ like time-travel.

“Do you like it?”

You pause in the doorway, your jaw agape until you’ve worked it into a shocked smile. Emily’s not sixteen anymore, and she’s not wore a fringe in ages, but, save for a few minor details, it’s not hard to remember how it felt to find her in your room, unexpectedly, all those years ago – your recall sharpened immediately once you’ve stepped across the threshold.

“It is hauntingly reminiscent,” you nod, looking from the placement of the bed to the colour on the walls. When Emily’s expression falls with disappointment, you then assure her, “Em, it’s perfect.”

She looks around the room as well before agreeing almost wistfully, “Yeah, it is.”

Your feet take you slowly forward until you’re stood at the foot of the bed, your legs staggered between Emily’s, her hands on your hips. When you look down on her, she just breathes out, like some ancient nervousness has just found its way into the air around you. It’s quick seconds, though, before your lips find hers, before your hands work to undo the buttons of her top. Emily’s nerves are short-lived, it seems, because she’s grabbing at your clothes with very little finesse just seconds later.

The sex is clumsy in such a small bed, and it’s the sort of encounter that would have made you flush with embarrassment at a younger age. But it’s infinitely better now, to laugh against Emily’s mouth as your limbs get tangled, to hear her exclamation of _‘Jesus!’_ echo in the room when your cold hands skim her inner thigh. You’ll get around to the good stuff, to the less funny bits. But, at this point, it’s all incredibly good – every single moment with her.

Emily’s orgasm builds incredibly slowly, and it’s clearly not the first she’s had since you moved into the house, but it’s certainly the first you’ve given her that feels so reminiscent of your adolescence.

Because the sun casts its light into the room at familiar angles. And her moans are a bit more restrained, almost as if your mum could be downstairs, enjoying a cup of tea, while you fuck your new girlfriend in an afternoon frenzy as quietly as possible.

You lay facing each other when it’s all said and done, clothing haphazardly removed and lips reddened, until your breathing shallows and your pulse returns to normal. And Emily presses her lips together, in the way she always has, smiling as you brush the hair from her face.

“You’re so lovely,” you tell her.

You’re such a far cry from the girl who first discovered what it was like to have Emily in this room. The girl who didn’t know how to share her bed, let alone her heart. The girl who acted cruelly on impulse, out of instinct. Out of survival, really. Because you weren’t just scared of losing control with Emily, you were afraid of losing everything.

But you’ve since accepted that falling in love with Emily was never something you were meant to survive, let alone control.

“You are far lovelier,” she counters, and you know a blush has just coloured your face by the way she smiles. Emily then lifts her eyes to the ceiling. “It doesn’t feel real yet, does it? Being back here?”

You watch her, as if time has slowed. As if you’ve gone back to a previous life to relive your very best moments with her.

“Sometimes just being with you doesn’t even feel real. It’s like I spent all this time, learning how to be without you and now—“

You feel a surge of emotion spring up unexpectedly, aching at the back of your throat, when Emily’s gaze snaps back to you.

So you swallow it down while she says, “I know what you mean.”

Your eyes fall to the mattress between you, and you reach for her hand. “I used to think that I wouldn’t ever be able to let you go.” Your voice is pitched too high and sort of quiet, and Emily wraps her fingers around your own, squeezes just once. “Right after everything happened, you know, but even—“ you breathe out to try and control the tremor in your voice. “—even for a very long time after that, I didn’t know if it would ever really be possible. And it felt fucking awful, for a long time anyway, holding onto any part of you. But I just – I don’t know, I never thought it’d be possible to let you go and still be okay.”

Emily just breathes out once you’ve finished, nodding slowly and biting at her top lip when you finally look up at her. “How long?”

Your brow creases and Emily just shakes her head.

“How long had you been in New York before you realised that wasn’t true?”

You smile at her, subdued for how relieved you feel to finally tell her, “It didn’t actually work that way.” Your fingers slide between hers, latching you together. “If I realised anything, it was that I didn’t have to let go, and I’d still be okay.”

**

“I can’t be late. It’s the first day of term, Naomi.”

Her protest is flimsy, if anything, practically breathless. Pathetic, really. And her hands are saying other things – contradictory things – the way they tangle through your hair, holding your head in place where it’s hovered above her chest.

“I cannot be held accountable for my actions when you’re walking around dressed in _this_.”

Emily laughs then, even though your lips have found the soft flesh just above her bra. Even though her stomach muscles tense beneath your fingertips.

“I’m dressed for work,” she argues through a laugh. “Or, I _was_.”

It’s only partially true, which makes you only partially culpable for finding yourself on top of her on the sofa, hands sliding beneath her shirt after having unbuttoned it entirely.

Twenty minutes ago, you’d been on the sofa alone with your coffee and a copy of _The Guardian_. Emily breezed through in bare feet, a pencil skirt, and her blouse, halfway unbuttoned so that her bra was almost entirely exposed, in order to check the time on her mobile. And, well, you’re only human.

“You smell so good,” you say, inching your way back up to her neck where the scent of her perfume is heaviest.

“You know I don’t have time for this,” she whines, kissing you anyway when your lips have found their way from her neck to her mouth.

You simply smile and kiss her again, lingering there until she starts to reciprocate more seriously.

After a moment, you breathe out against her ear, “You sure I can’t pop under that skirt for just a tick?”

Emily just swallows and watches you, her eyes already darker and her breathing already heavier. With a painfully slow blink and furrowed brow, she says, “I can’t.” And then, running her hands down your back towards the hem of your sleep shirt. “Later?”

“When I get home tonight, I’ll have a smaller, chattier compatriot with me,” you remind her with a sigh. “Guessing couch sex will be off the table at that point.”

Emily breathes out heavily, tipping her head back in frustration, and runs her hands under your tee shirt along your skin. “Why could you not have been this eager last night when we had all the time in the world?”

With a grin you kiss beneath her chin and then just beside her earlobe. “Because I’m extremely difficult, obviously. And, because you weren’t wearing an outfit from some teenaged fantasy of a fit English professor last night.”

“Oh my god, I am _not_ —“

She’s effectively silenced with another kiss, her fingers flexing on your back when your body shifts against her. “You are,” you say a moment later, your face hovering above hers. “And it’s not a bad thing, believe me. Their attentions will be rapt today, Ms Fitch, I assure you.”

“I believe you meant Dr Fitch,” she corrects, an arc to her left brow you can feel very low in your stomach.

“Christ, you’re really not playing fairly,” you groan, kissing her again while your hand grips to her bared rib cage.

She seems to reciprocate right up until your hand drifts south, fingers searching just under the hem of her skirt.

Which is when she pleads, “I really _have_ to go.”

“Yeah, alright,” you sigh, slowly pushing off of her.

Once you’re stood beside the sofa, you offer your hand to pull her up. Emily’s working the buttons of her top back through before you finally resign to not getting any pre-work shags, collapsing back onto the sofa without her.

“Killjoy.”

Emily smirks over her shoulder, locks of dark red falling against her face, while finishing her final button and smoothing out her skirt. “Don’t you have a meeting this morning anyway?”

“Yes,” you sulk, eyeing your mug of coffee that’s now likely lukewarm and undesirable.

“Which means you have a train to catch?”

You tend to book meetings in London every Friday morning to coincide with collecting Lewis for his weekends in Bristol, a sort of replacement routine you’ve created with him like the mornings you once spent together.

“The train can wait,” you try once more with a hopeful expression.

But Emily, standing over you with her hands resting on her hips and her smile something terribly lovely, just says, “I love you. Even when your spontaneity is _horribly_ timed.”

She’s already leaving the room so you’ve propped up on both elbows, raising your voice to be sure she’s heard you. “As a university professor of the English language, shouldn’t you have a better grasp on the definition of _spontaneity_?”

But Emily’s laugh just echoes down the hallway as she heads towards the kitchen.

At the door, Emily is gathering her things into the leather bag you’d found online [second-hand, because to purchase one new was still grossly out of your price range] and given to her when she secured her position at the new university. You’re holding a bowl of cereal, crunching away and watching her meticulously organised folders go into the bag one by one. When she stands, you smile at the nerves you can see dancing behind her eyes.

“You’ll be great,” you tell her, mid-chew, and Emily relaxes a bit when a drop of almond milk escapes your mouth and rolls down your chin.

She shakes her head when, using your shoulder,  you sop up the drip into your sleep shirt. “Lewis is teaching you some very poor eating habits.” 

“I’m sure that’s not entirely true. I’ve never been particularly adept at shovelling food into my mouth.”

“You’ll collect him from Rose’s this afternoon then?” Emily adjusts the strap on her bag and misses the way your eyes narrow, the way your mouth turns down with distaste.

“I don’t see why I can’t just go directly to his school – avoid seeing her altogether.”

“Because we didn’t plan for that, and without you being on the list for today they won’t release him to you,” Emily explains.

“Yes, but you’re his mother – can’t you ring the school and alert them to the change of plans?”

“Not without speaking with Rose first, no. And I’d really rather not make adjustments to this schedule after we’ve just finally agreed on it working this way. You can understand that, right?”

“Yes,” you tell her, speaking more to your bowl of cereal than to Emily.

“Next week, I’ll see about changing things around, okay?”

“Alright.”

“Thank you.” Emily takes a step forward, reaching for the front door and placing her other hand on your waist. “Now kiss me before I’m _actually_ late.”    

Begrudgingly, you set your bowl onto a nearby credenza before wrapping both arms around Emily’s waist. You can no longer frown, not while being this close to her. Certainly not while actively kissing her, and within seconds the notion of seeing Rose later in the day no longer seems all that terrible.

A moment later, your forehead resting just barely against Emily’s, you tell her, “You really do smell so good.”

“I’m _leaving_ ,” she laughs, extricating from your hold with a gentle push against your chest and pulling open the front door. “But, I love you.”

“Love you too,” you say as Emily hurries down the front steps, and then add, “Good luck then, _Dr_ Fitch.”

Emily turns her head quickly and waves, and you fall against the doorjamb with a grin to watch her go.

**

Instead of doing what you’re told, you’ve basically done the exact opposite.

Because although you’ve always been fairly rule-governed, there’s another part of you that prefers to fuck off the beaten path and do your own thing. Some character flaw you can probably attribute to your mum, since for the bulk of your upbringing she was in a perpetual state of protest. It’s why you find yourself now, stood in front of Marjorie, and attempting to talk your way around an insanely strict set of rules. 

“You know I can’t, Naomi. I’m sorry, but if it’s not written in the schedule then I can’t very well—“

“Yeah, I know all about the bloody _schedule_.”

Marjorie blanches, and you bite your lip to backpedal.

Releasing a deep sigh to calm your agitations, you remind her, “Look, I’ve already cleared it with his mum. I’m actually doing _her_ the favour.”

All it’d taken was a simple text message to Rose, and she seemed just as pleased to hand over Lewis into your care without any actual interaction. Your approach to Emily’s very significant ex has always been to remain cordial and to keep your interactions civil, for the sake of Lewis. But, avoiding her as much as humanly possible is always preferable.

“Yes, and I’ve tried ringing Ms Grafton and Ms Fitch, but without being able to speak with them directly, I’m afraid I can’t sign Lewis over to you.”

Rose was meant to contact the school and clear all of this prior to your arrival. And while you’re pleased to have avoided going to her flat, still the same place she once shared with Emily, you can’t help but wonder if she’s neglected to hold up her end of the bargain just to make your day that much more difficult. You release a short breath, trying to keep your frustrations in check, before loosening your tight smile into a more genuine one.

“She’ll be in class though, won’t she? Emily too, for that matter.” you gently offer. “Being _professors_ and all. Can’t very well take a phone call in the middle of lecture now can they?”

“Yes, well—“

“And, by the time Rose is finished with work it’ll be past Lewis’ release, which means the poor boy could be sat here, all alone, without anyone here to collect him all because the _schedule_ ,” and you tap your finger just lightly to the top of her computer monitor, “isn’t willing to make concession.”

Marjorie sighs and tips her head into her hands. She’s not all bad, really, and you’ve always rather liked her as far as deputy headmistresses go. When she looks up, Marjorie looks almost adorably defeated, and you forcefully pinch your lips together to avoid a victorious smile.

“I’ll be sacked if Lewis’ mum – _either_ of them – rings back to say she hasn’t authorised you to take him early today, Naomi.”

You beam brightly then, placing a hand solemnly over your chest. “Marjorie, you can personally skin me alive if I’m not telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me god.”

“Have a seat,” she sighs. “I’ll send him out.”

**

In the back of a taxi, Lewis is filling you in on his school day while tugging at the collar of his starched, white shirt where it’s peeking out from beneath a burgundy jumper. 

“And then I said, _‘no, you haven’t.’_ And then he said, _‘I have so.’_ And then I said, _‘Bollocks – prove it why don’t you.’_ And that’s when Mrs Mackey caught Julian removing his trousers next to the monkey bars!”

“Hmm,” you nod thoughtfully, reaching over to unbutton the top of his shirt when he won’t stop worrying it. “Perhaps not the most opportune place to compare your willy with your mates’ then, was it?”

Lewis sadly shakes his head from side to side, then asks hopefully, “You’ll not say anyfing to mum, will you?”

“Something tells me Mrs Mackey will be relaying that information to her whether I do or not.”

He sighs heavily and watches his shoes as they bob up and down where they‘re hung over the edge of the seat.

“Chin up, Lewis,” you tell him with a quick pat to his knee. “We can talk to your mum about it together if you like.” Lewis nods slowly at this, though still refusing eye contact, and so you tell him, “And anyway, we’re going to see something brilliant today.”

“We are?” he asks, looking up at you sullenly from beneath a too-long fringe that Emily refuses to trim.

“I think you’ll quite like it. Not to mention, I’ve just taken you out of school for the day, haven’t I? A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt, you know,” you add, prodding him a few times in the ribs with your index finger until he laughs.

“Fanks, Nomi.” He grabs at your fingers to stop you from tickling his side, then  reaches up to brush hair from his face before asking with more enthusiasm, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” you tell him, smiling to yourself when Lewis keeps hold of your hand in one of his and starts to hum softly while looking out the window. 

**

Just outside The Chapel, Lewis hoisted onto your hip, you look over to find a pair of extremely curious, hazel eyes watching you.

“You know the rules then?”

“I’m not to touch _anyfing_ ,” he recites.

“Or?”

“Or you’ll chop off my fingers one by one!” He waggles his hands in front of your face with wide eyes as you nod in all seriousness.

“That’s right. And I’m rather fond of all ten of those digits so let’s just keep our hands in our pockets, shall we?”

Lewis nods in return as you set him down and reach for the door. He grips your hand a moment later and follows you into the venue.

**

“We’re going to York!” Lewis shouts from the entryway, crashing into Emily’s open arms where she’s crouched and waiting.

“We’re what?” Emily laughs, standing with him in her arms, and eyeing you strangely over Lewis’ shoulder.

“Nomi’s taking us to York, mum!” he repeats with enthusiasm, hugging tightly to Emily’s neck.

Kicking the door closed with your foot, you leave yours and Lewis’ bags in a heap at your feet and step forward to kiss the confusion off Emily’s forehead.

Lewis eyes you sheepishly once he’s met your narrowed gaze as you tell him, “Thought we were going to talk to your mum about stuff _together_ , mate.”

Emily, instantly perceptive, looks over to Lewis and asks, “Oh? What sort of stuff?”

“Nofing,” he says in a much smaller voice, resting his head on Emily’s shoulder. “I missed you, mum.”

You roll your eyes at the pair of them when Emily instantly melts, hugging him closer and kissing his head several times.

“I missed you too,” she coos, sticking her tongue out at you when you start to shake your head at the display.

In the sitting room, after some gentle encouragement and plenty of snuggles from Emily, Lewis finally cops to his encounter on the playground at school. It takes a concerted effort for the both of you not fall apart in laughter, but Emily’s got loads of practice as Lewis has always been fairly mischievous. Not to mention, she was raised alongside James Fitch, who remains far and above the most inappropriate young boy you’ve ever known in real life. Before long, Lewis is apologising with sad eyes and an adorable pout from the comfort of Emily’s lap.

“I think we can forget this ever happened so long as you try to remember that we’ve placed you in school to _learn_ , and not to cause problems with your mates,” Emily tells him, rubbing small circles along his back. “I still don’t really see what any of this has got to do with York,” she then says, and Lewis’ face lights up in an instant.

“There’s a woman, mum – a girl who made me look like a shadow with this pile of rubbish, and, and then she told Nomi that she should come with her to York, and then – and then Nomi said we could go too!”

Emily’s brow raises as she looks over at you with some cross between suspicion and intrigue, her mouth twisting into an expectant smirk even as you roll your eyes.

“Not York, Lewis,” you correct with a smile from the other end of the sofa. “ _New_ York.”

“Oh.” Lewis contemplates, his face crinkled in thought. And then rubs his nose with the sleeve of his jumper when asking, “Why did they have to make a new York? What’s happened to the old one?”

Emily laughs before pulling him into her chest and kissing his temple. “Did I mention how much I’ve _missed_ you?”

After dinner, you find Emily in the kitchen rinsing dishes while Lewis watches television in the lounge. Emily twists the taps and sets a plate aside before turning towards you with a smirk you’d not been expecting.

“What?”

“So there’s a _woman_ who’d like to take you to New York, ey?”

You laugh while shaking your head and telling her, “Not exactly. Lewis met one of the artists today while I was finishing up some work at the Asylum exhibit. I’ll tell you about it later, yeah?”

“I look forward to it,” Emily says, her mouth still quirked to one side.

As your eyes scan her quickly from top to bottom, you tell her, “Why don’t you let me finish these so you can change clothes and go relax with him?”

Emily shrugs, tucking strands of hair behind her ear while drops of water from her hand leave a trail of moisture along her brow. “Thought maybe we’d put the boy to bed early since he’s had a rather long day, and then we could—“ she lets it linger there, holding her bottom lip between her teeth, and looking up to you with a suggestive smile.

Your eyes narrow. “We could _what_ exactly?”

You know exactly what. But the only thing sexier than Emily propositioning you with a look, is hearing her say it aloud.

She tugs at your jeans pocket, casting her eyes downward. “Well, we didn’t really get to finish this morning, did we?”

You check just once, over your shoulder, because for such a chatty, little bastard, Lewis is just as likely to sneak  up behind you without warning. Your hand slips around Emily’s waist once the coast is clear, and you pull her towards you enough to lean down and say against her ear, “Finish? We didn’t even get started.”

She still smells unbelievable, and with the way her breath hitches when you press your lips to the side of her neck, it’s a miracle you don’t get right to it up against the kitchen sink. But you’ve got other ideas – ones that involve large beds and soft linens and undressing her very slowly. So you pull back by a fraction and kiss the corner of her mouth while she clutches to your waist.

“Let me finish up anyway. You’ve not seen him all week.”

“Thanks. I’ll take him upstairs to wash up before bed,” she says, still watching your mouth. “Come find us in a bit, will you?”

“Of course,” you say with a lingering smile, then watch as her _and_ her skirt leave the kitchen.

**

It’s far too quiet when you reach the top of the staircase, so it’s no surprise that you find them together on Lewis’ bed, fast asleep, an open book on Emily’s lap and Lewis curled into her side. You wake her by running one finger down the slope of her nose, and she blinks a second later, her eyes now bleary and completely devoid of the arousal you’d seen in them just a half an hour before.

“Shit, sorry,” Emily whispers, checking to see that Lewis hasn’t woken.

“Don’t be silly,” you tell her, taking the book from her lap and placing it on the shelving that covers nearly every wall of Lewis’ room. “Come on, let’s get you to bed, sleepy girl.”

Emily takes your hand, carefully sliding away from Lewis without disturbing him, and quietly follows you out of the room, switching off the light just before closing the bedroom door.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Emily says once you’re in the hallway, rubbing one eye and heading towards your room.

“You’re exhausted, Ems. It’s been a busy week, yeah?”

“I know, but we—“

Shaking your head, you turn to face her once you reach the bedroom doorway. “Forget about it. It’s fine, really.”

Emily snakes her arms around your waist, falling against your chest a moment later so that you can easily place your chin atop her head.

“When did we become those people who are too tired or too overworked for sex?” she asks sleepily.

Your laughter slips out before you remember to keep quiet, finally biting down on your top lip to reign it in for the sake of the sleeping child.

“We have _not_ become those people, Emily. And, I can assure you, this is not the only outfit you own that will drive me mad with urges to tear it off,” you tell her with a suggestive lilt.

Emily laughs in turn. You can feel its vibrations along your arms. “Good. I don’t ever want to be those people.”

“Look, did I not just shag you in my old bedroom on the fucking floor?”

Her voice is small, spoken against the cotton of your shirt. “Yes.”

“And then again – in the middle of the afternoon – a few days after that?”

Emily cranes her neck backwards so she can kiss your chin. “I have always loved that room.”

“Very well then – as long as we’ve access to that room we can rest easy that we’ll not _ever_ be in the same vicinity as _those_ people.”

“Alright,” she laughs. “Point taken. I’m allowed to be tired.”

“Yes, you are allowed to be tired.” But then, narrowing your eyes sceptically, you append, “Though, not in that skirt and top, actually. So I’ll kindly ask that you change into something else immediately.”

Her laugh pulls you into the room more so than her hand, which grips to yours and tugs you forward as she steps backwards towards the wardrobe.

**

You’re still aimlessly scrolling your tablet while Emily lays beside you, her hand resting on your stomach beneath the sheets. She’s been quiet for quite some time, and you assume she’s fallen asleep since her breathing has slowed.

But then her voice is scratched and soft. “Naoms.”

You look over to see her eyes still closed, but her fingers have started to move against your sleep shirt. “Hmm?”

“You never told me about New York.”

With the tablet placed quietly on your nightstand, you turn to lie facing her so that Emily’s hand moves from your stomach to rest on your hip. You’re already grinning when she slowly opens her eyes.

“Do you remember the exhibit I told you about? The woman who does a kind of sculpting with light and shadows?”

Emily nods as a yawn escapes her. “Yama-something, wasn’t it?”

“Yamashita, yeah. She’s called Kumi, and she lives in New York, actually.” When your hand reaches to tuck strands of hair behind Emily’s ear, her eyes fall closed again. “She was exceptionally charmed by your son today.”

Emily’s smile appears just as she reopens her eyes. “Naturally.”

“It is his specialty, I suppose,” you say.

And Emily nods, raising an eyebrow. And you know, in her unspoken way, she’s just insinuated that you’re the most glaring evidence of Lewis’ talents.

“Anyway,” you continue, “she’s asked me to collaborate on a project with her at the end of the year, and it would involve some time spent in the city.”

Emily’s brow creases minutely. “What sort of time?”

“A week, maybe ten days.”

“Oh.”

Her face has fallen considerably, and you can see the way her mind’s already started to churn with the notion of time spent apart, so you lean forward just slightly to press your lips to her forehead until it relaxes.

“I thought perhaps we could take Lewis there – have ourselves a little holiday.”

“Really?”

“Why not? You and Lewis will be between terms. And I’d rather have you two there than go alone.”

“But, it’ll be Christmas. What about my parents?”

“We’ve spent Christmases with your entire family, or my crazy mum, or _both_ for the past three years, Em. I thought maybe this year we should spend it with, you know, _ours_.”

She lights up immediately, even given the darkened room. It’s what you’re thinking about – how lovely it is to watch her face brighten with so few words – when Emily leans in to kiss you.

“Is that a yes?” you smile, Emily’s face still impossibly close, her breath tickling your lips.

She doesn’t answer, just smiles and kisses you a second time, with some added momentum, slipping her hand beneath your sleep shirt so that her fingers trail up your back.

“Do you know what I just realised?” she says, low and sultry, the sleep in her voice suddenly gone as she slides a leg between your own.

She keeps encroaching, pressing into you, and you watch her mouth, answering distractedly. “What?”

Her lips curl up just before touching yours. “I’m not tired anymore.”

**

While stood in queue for a taxi just outside international arrivals, you catch Emily’s eye, and a familiar excitement bubbles up in your chest. She smiles just a second before you, and your thoughts race back in time to a different winter in this very same city.

Emily looks over her shoulder towards the area of pavement where you’d found her, then says, “I wanted to kiss you the instant I saw you, you know.”

“Well, it’s fortunate that you didn’t since I was seconds away from vomiting all over our boots.”

“How terribly romantic,” Emily says drolly with an adorable eye roll.

Lewis is sandwiched between you, hugging to Emily while you try to block the wind with your legs and luggage. “It’s really cold,” he says, his voice muffled by Emily’s thick parka.

“We’re up next,” you tell him, inching closer to the both of them.

“You mean, you didn’t think—“ Emily starts, looking suddenly uncertain as her eyes settle on yours.

And you refrain from kissing her that very instant only because a driver approaches to take your bags.

“I’ve never once laid eyes on you and _not_ wanted to kiss you, Emily,” you say instead, and then open the car door for her as she beams and ducks inside the heated taxi.

** 

An odd feeling rises up while driving across the Brooklyn Bridge in the back of a taxi, Lewis asleep on your arm and yours and Emily’s hands resting together on his knees. The city should be something you miss, you think, it being a rather large part of your life, of the person you’ve become. There are elements of New York, perhaps, that left impressions on your skin and in your bones – small gaps that you’d noticed during that first year back in London. When everything except being with Emily felt entirely out-of-sorts. But the longing for any of it, for a return to what you’ve lost or given up, always pales so greatly in contrast to what you’ve gained.

As if reading your thoughts, Emily looks over to you and smiles, the orange lights of the bridge passing in flashes across her face.

Then with a glance to Lewis, she says, “He’ll be awake all night at this rate.”

“As well he should,” you say confidently, “being in the city that never sleeps.”

“So long as you’re in support of it, _you_ can be the one to stay awake with him.”

Your eyebrows quirk in response to Emily’s challenging tone when you tell her, “Deal.”

**

You’ve rented a flat in DUMBO since the idea of staying in a hotel for eight straight days seemed depressing on many levels, and you don’t quite feel comfortable staying in your old neighbourhood. A place you’d essentially left on a whim, some four years ago, and never looked back.

You’ll take them there, of course, because Park Slope is generally lovely and will always feel, in some ways, like a second home. You’ll walk Lewis down Fifth Avenue, highlighting your old haunts along the way like some merry tour guide. He’ll beg for a new fuzzy hat from Mudspot while Emily pays for your coffees, and he’ll giggle when you tell him that Jackie’s is the best dive to get pissed on the cheap. You’ll take them for a proper American breakfast at Dizzy’s Diner, immediately vetoing Emily when she attempts to stop Lewis from ordering chocolate-stuffed French toast.

“We’re on holiday. Let the boy have sweets for every meal of the day if he likes.”

Lewis’ eyes go extremely wide while Emily’s remain decidedly less amused. And so you amend the holiday proclamation, insisting that Lewis must also drink an entire glass of orange juice if he’s going to have a melted chocolate bar for breakfast. He complies immediately, vigorously nodding his head while clutching his fork in one hand and knife in the other on the table top.

And Emily, either because she’s entirely powerless over the lure of Christmas cheer or because your hand has found its way onto her leg, buckles just as quickly.

Afterwards, you’ll walk into the park, practically desolate for the time of year, not to mention the biting cold of the season. You’ll stay huddled with Emily, your arms wrapped around her for additional warmth, while Lewis rounds the bases of his very first baseball diamond, a sugar high of epic proportions fuelling his excitement.

**

The space you’ve procured for Kumi’s show is relatively close to the flat, which means you’re never far from Emily and Lewis, even while working. By the third day, you’ve all fallen into a kind of easy routine in which you leave them early each morning, see them again for lunch when they turn up to see your progress, and return to the flat late at night, knackered and starving, to eat your portion of take-away that they’ve ordered, while Lewis sleeps soundly and Emily binges on American television. 

Lewis is gutted that you won’t have a Christmas tree in the flat until you take him to Rockefeller Centre, at which point his face lights up brighter than you’ve ever seen it when he shouts over the dull roar of the crowd, “This is my favouritest Christmas _ever!_ ”

The ice rink is far too crowded, even as mere spectators, and stepping one foot inside FAO Schwartz on Christmas Eve is a panic attack waiting to happen. So you drink hot chocolates and huddle together, allowing Lewis to stare up at the massive lit tree for as long as his legs will hold him.

On Christmas morning, Lewis shreds through the small collection of gifts you’d packed in with your things while Emily cuddles into you on the sofa, wearing her new pyjamas and a shiny, gold paper crown.

You’re holding coffee in one hand and Emily in the other, watching with amusement as Lewis tears into each gift, and it couldn’t be a better day if Father Christmas himself waltzed through the front door and handed you a thousand pounds.  

You breathe a contented sigh. “I’m glad we did this.”

Emily’s head crinkles against your shoulder when she sits up, and your smile widens at her crooked paper crown.

“Me too. I can’t believe tomorrow’s our last day. Feels like we only just got here.”

“Look, Nomi!” Lewis holds up paintbrushes in his fist for the watercolours he’s already opened. “It’s art!”

“Very cool, mate. You’ll have to paint our portraits once we’re back home so we can have them hung in the house. What do you think?”

“We can frame them and everyfing?”

“Any piece of proper art should be preserved in some way, Lewis. You know that,” you lightly admonish, to which he nods and raises his eyebrows.

 “Can I paint you now, mum?”

“Oh, I think we should wait, Lewis,” Emily says. “I wouldn’t want the paintings to get ruined when we travel, alright?”

“But I want to paint somefing _now_ ,” he whines, looking pitifully at his new brushes.

“You’ve still got loads of things to open,” you tell him. “Look, why don’t you let me hang on to these while you keep at it.” Lewis surveys the gifts at his feet where he’s sat on the floor, then looks to you, warily handing over his brushes. “Go on then,” you smile, and he jumps back to task.

Once you’ve tucked the brushes away into an empty box, you settle back into the sofa and whisper, “Sod the watercolours and sketch books, I should be teaching the art of distraction.”

Emily laughs, leans up to kiss your cheek, and steals your coffee mug in one fluid motion. Then says, just as low but infinitely sexier, “If you can find a way to distract him later, I’ve got your gift waiting in the bedroom.”

She’s already looked away, back towards Lewis who’s just unwrapped a box of rubber dinosaurs, when your head snaps to the side. But she’s wearing a satisfied smirk even as she refuses eye contact, steals another sip of your coffee, and gently places a hand just above your kneecap.

It really could _not_ be a better, fucking day.

**

If Lewis had been enamoured by Rockefeller Centre two days prior,  his head basically explodes when you walk him through the museum of natural history. His excitement cannot actually be contained, and so you’re grateful the crowds seem almost non-existent on the day after Christmas. You’ll fly back to London the following morning, but bringing Lewis and Emily to see Milstein Hall has been near the top of your list for ages.

“Oh my god,” Emily gasps as you round the corner and she first catches sight of the giant whale suspended in mid-air.

“It’s massive!” Lewis runs for the banister, pressing his face between the metal railing. “Look at it mum!”

“Do you want to go stand beneath it, mate?” You come to stand behind Lewis, placing both hands on his shoulders.

To respond, he tilts his head backwards, butting it against your stomach. “You’re upside down,” he laughs.

He’s still so small, even at nearly four-and-a-half, you’ve flipped him easily with a quick swoop of your arm around his waist until he’s dangling head over feet, laughing wildly.

“I think you’ll find that _you’re_ the one who’s turned on his head.” 

He giggles harder, grabbing for your legs with his hands. When you right him again, placing him back on his feet, he simply falls into your knees and looks up to you. “Do that again, Nomi.”

Looking over to Emily, you find her slipping her mobile back into her pocket, and you know she’s just snapped your photo.

“What do you say we try to flip your mum instead? Dangle her over the banister by her toes,” you say, wagging your eyebrows in Emily’s direction while Lewis takes your hands.

“Yes, get mum! Get mum!”

Before you’ve taken even a step towards her, Emily warns with a chilling look, “I grew up battling Katie – just remember that.”

“Right,” you say, looking back to Lewis and clearing your throat. “Your turn again, mate.” And then toss him over your shoulder like a small sack of potatoes, his laughter echoing throughout the hall as you head down the stairs.

**

“He’s never going to forget this.”

Emily is laid to your right, both of you stretched out on the black, rubber matting that covers the floor beneath the museum’s massive, 94-foot blue whale. Lewis is doing circles a few paces away, keeping his eyes upward on the whale’s belly, until dizziness overtakes him and he collapses. Only to stand up and start again.

“That was sort of the point,” you tell her, smirking once your head’s turned to see her in the dim lighting.

Emily takes your hand, and by the look in her eyes you know she’s not planning to return your sarcasm. “Do you know that when I see you with him, I often can’t help remembering that this isn’t anything that you wanted.”

“Em—“

“No, I just,” she swallows, shaking her head from side-to-side before looking back to you. “I sometimes forget – we didn’t plan for this, you and I.”

“We didn’t ever plan for much of anything,” you counter lightly.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Somewhere in the near distance, you can hear Lewis’ laughter and prop up on an elbow to see him laid flat on his back, his arms and legs spread wide.

“I want you to know,” Emily continues, drawing your attention back to her, “what it means that you’ve taken all this on, Naomi. I still can’t believe it half the time.”

It’s the perfect sort of atmosphere to have a life’s chat. The way the hall is mostly emptied, save for a few families and the odd pair of hipsters in matching dark glasses and retro trainers. The way the ceiling panels are digitally manipulated to look like the ocean’s surface, so that looking down at Emily’s lovely face, she appears to be floating underwater.

“What’s so hard to believe? I found you again after ten, bloody years. After convincing myself I’d likely die without ever seeing you again – of course I wasn’t going to give you up for anything.” Emily’s face almost crumples, and so you add with a bit of dry flourish, “Not _even_ in light of your offspring with another woman.”

“Stop joking,” she pouts, shoving lightly to your shoulder. And then, as if remembering, “He’s still nearby, isn’t he?”

You sit up fully, scanning the large area beneath the whale’s belly, and find Lewis just as he was – laid flat, spread wide, and having a conversation with himself. Or, quite possibly, with the whale.

“Yeah. He’s fine.”

When you turn to face her, Emily’s sat up as well and rests her head against your shoulder when your arm falls between her thighs. She wraps both arms around it and slips her hand into yours where it rests on her leg.

“You know,” you sigh after a few seconds of quiet. “It was never meant to be about wanting the same things.” Emily lifts her head so that you can see her face, her eyes more lovely each time they’re locked with yours. “It was always supposed to be about wanting to be together, in spite of everything else.”

You lean in to kiss her, to keep her from crying, her bottom lip quivering even as you press against it. Emily’s fingers flex around your own, and despite your efforts, she still swipes beneath her eyes once you’ve pulled away, a slight glisten along her lashes.

Lewis jumps in front of you seconds later, his trainers narrowly missing your shins, and Emily smiles when he falls into your lap without question.

“Besides,” you then say, “Lewis and I were always meant to be mates, weren’t we?”

He nods, taking your necklace between his fingers. “Yep.”

Emily leans over, kisses his head and then your shoulder cap.

“I saw you snogging my mum,” Lewis then says with a cheeky grin.

“Oh, did you?” you laugh with an impressive nod to Emily, who crosses her arms and fights a smile when addressing her son.

“And what exactly do you know about _snogging_ , sir?”

“Auntie Katie made me close my eyes when it was happening on the telly.” You laugh again, even as Emily scowls. “But I peeked,” he then admits readily, and chances a look up at you.

Emily looks to you as well, incredulous at your amusement, but then you shrug, “She’s _your_ sister.” So Emily only sighs and runs her fingers through Lewis’ hair before again taking your hand in hers.

Lewis stop fiddling the charm on your necklace, and moves to sit between your outstretched legs so he can look up at the massive creature suspended above you, his head resting on your stomach. Emily sighs, her fingers playing with the gold ring you’ve always worn, but says nothing. So you turn your head to find her watching your hand, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

“Go on then,” you prompt, gently nudging her shoulder with your own, and Emily looks up as if she’s been caught with her hands in the biscuit tin.

After some audible hesitation, she clumsily asks, “I wonder if you’ve ever – I mean, we’ve never talked about it or anything.” She bows her head, watches your thumb move across her hand. “But, do you think you’d ever reconsider, or – well, just seeing you with Lewis, I just wonder if you’ve ever thought about—“

“Yes.” You squeeze her fingers when they still, rather suddenly, and then smile fully when Emily’s head snaps up and her face drops. “I have.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” she says disbelievingly.

“Doesn’t matter what it is,” you shrug. “I’ve learnt just about anything’s possible, when it comes to the two of us.”

“Free!” Lewis corrects, and you practically jump out of your skin, having forgotten his ears are almost constantly tuned to your wavelength. “One is mum, two is you, and free is me,” he continues, ticking off each person on his tiny, outstretched fingers.

“You’re right,” you tell him. “My sincerest apologies for the oversight.”

“It’s okay, Nomi,” Lewis tells you, returning his attention towards the ceiling.

Emily’s lips are pinched together, her eyes already watering when your head turns with an easy smile.

“Lewis, what would you think if there were four of us, instead of only three?” you ask, holding Emily’s eye as she blinks back tears.

“Four would be brilliant!” He spins on the floor to face you, and Emily reaches out to brush his hair from his face. “And after four comes _five_.”

You laugh a bit when suggesting, “Let’s not put the cart before the horse, shall we?”

He laughs with you, swatting away Emily’s hand and says, “Mum, Nomi says the weirdest fings, doesn’t she?”

Emily leans in to kiss your cheek. “I think she says the _best_ things.”

She can’t really seem to stop her eyes from brimming with fresh tears so you pull her towards you, a hand at the back of her neck, feeling moisture on your nose and lips when you kiss her.

“You should pull it together, you know. People are starting to think I’ve upset you,” you tease, your hand falling from her neck and coming to rest on the small of her back.

“Shut up. I don’t care,” Emily laughs, drying her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt. “I love you so much.”

“Yeah,” you smile, kissing her again just because you can. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> *credits for quotes listed at each section of this series* 
> 
> Part 1: 'Moth's Wings' Passion Pit  
> You’re resting on your laurels  
> And stepping on my toes
> 
> Part 2: 'Love, Love, Love' Of Monsters and Men  
> So I think it’s best we both forget before we dwell on it  
> The way you held me so tight all through the night, til it was near morning
> 
> Part 3: 'Love, love, love' Of Monsters and Men  
> And these fingertips will never run through your skin,  
> and those bright blue eyes can only meet mine across a room  
> filled with people that are less important than you
> 
> Part 4: 'The Wolves (Act I and II)' Bon Iver  
> Solace my game  
> Solace my game, it stars you
> 
> Part 5: 'Dust on the Ground' Bombay Bicycle Club  
> Well, I met you right but I kept you wrong  
> And I must wait until I’ve found the ground that you’re walking on
> 
> Part 6: 'Stitches' Califone  
> The wilderness between the bite marks and scratches  
> Didn’t we fit together like somebody else’s sweater  
> Cut the connection, just to stitch it together again, again, again
> 
> Part 7: 'Mirrors in the Moonlight' Noosa  
> 500 words on paper to tell you that I’m here  
> I’m never going nowhere, until I hear you say: I’m yours  
> But your heart is armed
> 
> Part 8: 'Kathy's Song' Simon and Garfunkel  
> And so you see I have come to doubt  
> All that I once held as true  
> I stand alone without beliefs  
> The only truth I know is you.


End file.
